


Peril

by BonnieKlyde



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonnieKlyde/pseuds/BonnieKlyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is easy to forget that Tom Riddle was, in fact, a human being. No one knew this better than Annabelle Reed, a woman who disappeared from his life and now claims that "Tom Riddle has been dead for a long, long time." All but forced to tell their story to Albus Dumbledore, Annabelle struggles to come to terms with her own emotions concerning the man the world has grown to hate, all the while knowing she has a decision to make that she has been avoiding for decades. Will she be able to once again face the contorted shell of a man she once loved for the good of humanity? Even if she can, will it make a difference, or is she right to believe that Lord Voldemort has replaced Tom Riddle for good?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old Acquaintances

Had anyone been present to witness the current Hogwarts Headmaster's behavior, they would have reported that Albus Dumbledore, as always, appeared calm and content as he absentmindedly drummed his fingers on his desk with a careful grin plastered on his aging face. He sat leaning back against the old mahogany wood of his high-backed chair with his ankles crossed carelessly under the creaking desk, his eyes glued expectantly to the door at the front of the office. Inside, however, the old wizard's mind was frantically racing. His hunt for Horcruxes was, ultimately, failing. One glance at his charred and blackened hand was enough to remind him of this. The ring had been one of the two Horcruxes- two Horcruxes!- that had successfully been destroyed. Four...well, five...still remained hidden in Merlin knew what places. He had begun to give up hope. Even in the unlikely event that he did manage to locate all of the remaining Horcruxes, killing Voldemort would still have to come at a great cost, not necessarily to himself, but to someone whose death would be much more catastrophic than his own. The vanquishing of the Dark Lord would require the death of the boy who least deserved it. What's more, it would mean the death of the boy who served as an icon of hope in these darkest of times. There had to be another way. However, try as he might, Dumbledore simply couldn't find it.

Then, suddenly and inexplicably, it had found him. A memory had appeared in the silver candy dish that always sat faithfully on top of his desk. He knew for absolute certain that he had not been the one to put it there. This was for two reasons, the first being that he would never have been so careless as to leave so valuable a possession lying unprotected in a candy dish. The second was the odd little container that it had been placed in. The memory was placed in a very small, emerald green box, which appeared as if it were meant to hold a piece of jewelry. The cover of the box was decorated with two very dark green snakes whose bodies were so intricately intertwined that one might think that the box sported only one snake that possessed two heads. Rather more significant than the jewelry box was the memory it contained.

Dumbledore knew enough to realize that this memory had not been tampered with. The signs of a modified memory were far too conspicuous to entertain the idea that he had missed them...but this...this was impossible! He cursed himself for not putting the pieces together during the time he had taught the person to whom the memory belonged in the subject of Transfiguration over fifty years before, but how could he when neither of the two people it involved offered a single piece to begin with? The boy...well, that was understandable, believable...but the girl? And of all the girls this boy had come into contact with...her? Granted she was quite a gifted witch, but she had been so utterly detached, uninterested in the rest of humanity, so closed off to everyone she came into contact with...romantic inclinations, frankly, were the last of the ambitions he'd expected this girl to have. Then again, that was certainly something that she and the boy had in common. He'd believed she was merely one of his followers, one that had somehow managed to defect years after leaving Hogwarts and leave the country. He should have known there must have been some reason why she had been permitted to do so. Alright, so romance was very slightly possible, but what Dumbledore was hoping lay hidden beneath this memory was far, far less so...but still, there was hope.

The Headmaster's thoughts were then interrupted by the sound of the door on the opposite side of the room, and the woman he had been waiting for entered his office. She was an unremarkable woman in appearance in that she was of average height with ghostly pale skin and dull gray eyes. In contrast, though in her late sixties, she showed remarkably few signs of age. Her complexion remained smooth and healthy, and her elegant posture had not suffered with time. The only indications of the fact that she was getting on a bit in years were the silver-tipped roots gleaming at the crown of her long, jet-black hair. She still appeared, Dumbledore noted, as guarded as she had been for the two years during which he had known her. Everything about her, her stance, her expression, the position of her hands folded neatly behind her back as she strode toward his desk, had an air of defensiveness about it, as if she were constantly afraid that some dark secret of hers would be revealed. This time, however, Albus was determined to ensure that it was.

"Dumbledore," the woman said slowly, with a slight nod of her head.

"Miss Reed," Albus replied with precisely the same tone.

She looked slightly taken aback. Dumbledore had anticipated this, for Annabelle Reed had taken on an entirely different name during her time at Hogwarts, and she supposedly had never revealed her true name to anyone, and certainly not to him. It was only natural for her to expect that her facade would have lived on all these years, especially since the letter he had sent her had been addressed to her false name.

"How do you know my name?" Annabelle inquired immediately, her eyebrows narrowed in suspicion.

Dumbledore chuckled to himself before saying, "My dear, when you are in such a position as I am, discovering someone's identity, even one as carefully concealed as yours, is one of the easier things that you can accomplish."

He could tell that Annabelle wanted to say something but was holding herself back, so he waited patiently as she stared at her own hands, her eyebrows furrowed, holding a struggle within her own mind. Finally, she decided to speak.

"That's not the only thing you seem to have figured out," she snapped, appearing rather irritated, "though I don't know how...well, it doesn't matter, I suppose. Go on then, let's hear it."

"Hear what, my dear?"

"Fine. You want me to say it? I'll say it. What have you found out? How much do you know?"

This woman had come into his office ready to fight a battle. This was not what he had been hoping for, but he would have been very foolish indeed if he had not expected it. Annabelle, or Heather, as she had more often called herself, was going to be very difficult to crack.

"You're going to have to be more specific, Miss Reed."

This clearly wasn't what this woman wanted to hear.

"Fine, Dumbledore. If you insist on the formalities, I'll ask the question we both know the answer to. Why did you want me here?"

Annabelle crossed her arms and looked the Headmaster dead in the eye, waiting for his response. Dumbledore sighed and began to fiddle with the tiny green box in his hand. Perhaps if she saw it on her own rather than listening to his explanation...

"What is that?" the woman sitting across from him exclaimed, leaning over to get a better look at it.

Excellent.

"This," he mused, for his own benefit nearly as much as it was for Annabelle's, "is the answer to your question."

"Give it to me," she commanded in a whisper, her hand outstretched with a desperate, pleading look on her face.

Dumbledore obliged, gently placing the box into her waiting hand. His eyes never left her face as she turned it over and over in her hands, tracing the figures of the two snakes engraved on the cover slowly with her finger. Her expression was unreadable, even to Albus Dumbledore, who'd been able to read so many in the past. That old, familiar wall that she had so often used to hide her thoughts and emotions from the outside world was evident once again. However, her hands betrayed her. Albus saw them quiver, ever so slightly, as she brushed her fingers delicately over every inch of the surface of the box. She reluctantly let her eyes drift up from the object in her hands into the face of the man who had handed it to her.

"Where did you get this?" she asked so quietly that he could hardly hear her.

"Here in this office, actually," he replied, "I haven't the slightest idea as to who brought it here. I had hoped that it would have been you, Annabelle, but I can see that I was incorrect."

"This is impossible," she said, her words coming out agonizingly slowly, as if they were being unwillingly wrenched from her throat, one by one, "I...I left it with..."

"With Tom?"

The silence that followed these two simple words was palpable. It seemed that the woman shied away from this man's given name in the same way that the rest of the wizarding world shied away from the name he had given himself.

"No," she said with a bitter anger ringing in her voice, "No, not Tom. If Tom were still there, I...I never would have had to leave. If it had been Tom, sir, he never would have let me go. You know as well as I do that Tom Riddle has been dead for a long, long time."

Dumbledore wasn't so sure of that. Lord Voldemort was living, breathing proof that people do change, and that change certainly isn't necessarily for the better. However, the idea that someone could lose every single part of themselves in the process...well that was unimaginable. There was hope; he was sure of it, but Annabelle was going to take a great deal of convincing.

"Alright, alright," he feigned, "I suppose you're right."

"Don't give me that," she snapped, more in exasperation than in anger, "What are you playing at?"

He knew he wouldn't get away with this little trick so easily. Unfortunately for the woman sitting across from him, however, if ever Annabelle Reed had a match, that match would be Albus Dumbledore.

"I'm not playing at anything, my dear," that careful smile plastered on his face once again, "I am simply acknowledging that you are correct."

His former student's suspicion remained unsatisfied, "You asked me to come here all the way from the United States...to admit that I'm right?" she asked skeptically.

"Of course not!" he replied, chuckling quietly to himself, "And let us not pretend that it was so difficult for you to reach Britain from America; what with all the skill in magic I remember you possessing, I can't imagine it took much effort at all."

Ignoring Annabelle's irritated grimace, he went on, "I need your help," he stated very seriously.

"I won't speak to him if that's what you want. You've wasted your time."

Dumbledore faltered, but only for a moment, "I know how difficult this will be for you, Annabelle, but it could mean saving the lives of a countless number of people, so I'm going to ask anyway."

Annabelle waited, staring at him with a pointed glare, for him to ask his question, but the old wizard remained silent. He was studying her, attempting to find the best way to approach such a delicate situation. He scrutinized her while she squirmed in discomfort, unwilling to meet his gaze. Her old professor knew that sitting under his watchful eye for this long would make her feel vulnerable, and although she hated this feeling, perhaps it was precisely what she needed. After several minutes had gone by, she was seemingly unable to stand his silent observation of her any longer.

"Well?" she asked with a note of impatience, "What is it?"

Dumbledore remained silent for a few moments longer before deciding it would be better to beat around the bush just a bit more.

"Miss Reed, are you aware of what is in that box you're holding?"

The woman looked down at her hands, seemingly surprised that the tiny green box was still laying in them.

"I...wasn't aware that there was anything in it," she stated slowly and uncertainly, "it was empty the last time I saw it."

Annabelle made no movement to open the box, only staring at the lid, so Dumbledore felt compelled to move things along a bit faster by revealing its contents to her himself.

"It contains a memory. Your memory, actually. Are you aware of which one I'm speaking of?"

"Yes," she answered, her tone monotonous, her expression unreadable.

"Then I believe you know what information it is that I'm looking for."

Now, it was Annabelle's turn to remain silent. Her utterly incomprehensible expression was frozen on her face as she brushed her thumb under the lid of the box in her hands. Supposedly deciding against actually looking at what it contained, she swiftly removed her thumb, causing the box to close again with a faint click. She bit her bottom lip as she reluctantly lifted her eyes to meet Dumbledore's again. When she spoke, her shaking voice gave away the emotion she so desperately tried to conceal.

"You don't understand," she said, closing her eyes as if the very words caused exhaustion, "I have worked so hard for so long to push back memories like this one. I've kept him locked away in parts of my mind that I don't dare to reach. Please, sir, don't ask me to remember."

"I have to. Again, I know how hard this is for you, but think of your parents."

"What do you know about my parents?" she interrupted, briefly brought out of the strange, melancholy state of mind she had been dragged into.

"A fairly long time ago, I made it my business to know everything there was to know about Gellert Grindelwald. He used horrible methods of murder, Annabelle, but Voldemort's are far worse in some cases. It's just possible that your story could save millions of others from that fate."

Annabelle did not take a moment to think it over, like Dumbledore was expecting. Her response came quickly and decisively, albeit she did not sound particularly enthusiastic while she gave it.

"Alright then, Dumbledore. You may want to make yourself comfortable, though, sir. It is, after all, a very long story."


	2. New Acquaintances

This was ridiculous.

There was simply no other word for it, and there was absolutely no explanation for this form of cruelty inflicted upon her by those she lived with other than complete and utter madness. There was no reason for her to be here of all places when she should be doing something far more...what? Productive? Helpful? Useful...yes, that was the word. Of what use could she possibly be to the Home at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? She cursed under her breath as she slipped through the barrier at King's Cross Station onto platform nine and three quarters, wishing fervently that she were back at the Home, training or gathering sorely needed information with the rest of the roughly two hundred youths living there in secret in order to prepare a revolt against a rising threat to wizarding society, not attending school like every other average, ignorant child, pretending to be blissfully unaware of the mounting danger. She'd been told that the Home required a spy within Hogwarts' walls, so that if the enemy had any followers, particularly Professors, training impressionable students in the Dark Arts, the Home could be informed as soon as possible so that any necessary action could be taken. That was a load of rubbish. She'd obviously done something wrong, and Isaac wanted to get her out of the way. It had happened before. No one had been sent to school, of course, but they'd be sent on idle "missions" after proving themselves weak or unnecessary so that they wouldn't get in the way of those capable of learning the skills needed for the resistance. So, she was being punished for inadequacy. The only problem with this theory was that she hadn't the slightest idea what she'd done wrong. As far as she was concerned, she was keeping up with training just fine, more than fine. Nothing added up.

Ah, well, there was no use in dwelling on it now. Isaac never once went back on a decision, so she was stuck, and she might as well make the most of it. Who knows? Maybe a bit of exposure back into the outside world would get her some valuable information. Yeah, right...but she could hope, couldn't she?

She heaved an enormous sigh as the final whistle sounded on the Hogwarts Express. Whether she liked it or not, she needed to get on that train. With a swift rolling of her eyes, she bounded across the platform and boarded the train just seconds before it started rolling down the tracks. She surveyed the aisle of compartments in front of her, hoping she'd be able to find an empty one so that she'd have time to fabricate a believable backstory for herself. She could form one off the top of her head if necessary, but that was dangerous. One bright professor or, however unlikely, an exceedingly bright student would be enough to pinpoint any holes that might exist, and this simply couldn't be afforded. Much to her disappointment, however, there were no compartments left unoccupied. In fact, it was a challenge to find one with any room for her at all.

Surprisingly enough, the compartment furthest toward the back of the train contained only one girl. Peering in through the open curtain, Annabelle judged the girl to be twelve or thirteen years old. She was a very small, mousy looking girl with ragged, stringy brown hair pulled back into pigtails and light blue eyes adorned with very large, thick, perfectly round glasses. She was staring miserably out the window with her chin resting on her left hand.

Annabelle threw open the door as roughly as she could so that it would make a noise loud enough to announce her appearance. The girl jumped, and her head quickly snapped from the window to where Annabelle was now standing.

"Are you lost?" she asked with slight irritation ringing in her tiny voice, "Or did you come in here to make fun of me?"

Wonderful. She'd been landed with the school outcast. She didn't have time for this. Behaving cordially toward this girl would make her clingy and essentially give her extra baggage to carry around. She wasn't entirely sure she could handle the annoyance. Nevertheless, if she were to bully her, the results could be even more disastrous. She'd have already created a new enemy, and that was the last thing she needed. She knew better than to underestimate someone upon first meeting them, even when that someone appeared to be this...pathetic. Groaning inwardly, she plastered her very best cordial smile onto her face and addressed the scrawny little girl.

"Actually, I was just wondering if you'd mind if I sat with you. I'm new to Hogwarts, so..." she trailed off with perfectly executed uncertainty; Annabelle Reed could act her way out of any given situation.

The girl appeared to have been caught off guard. Annabelle could guess that she'd never been approached in the past unless she was being tormented.

"Oh..." she said slowly, her eyebrows shooting upward, "I...I guess that would be alright..."

Annabelle flashed her most glowing smile and swiftly sat down on the seat across from the girl.

"I'm Myrtle, by the way," she said, sticking out her hand just a bit too eagerly, "Myrtle Engle."

"Heather Brown." Annabelle gave Myrtle the first name that came to her while grasping the other girl's hand briefly. Heather Brown...not bad.

There was a period of silence during which Annabelle stared out the window, secretly amused that the girl so obviously possessed no ability to communicate. Myrtle simply stared at her hands with an extreme air of awkwardness about her. Finally, she worked up the nerve to speak.

"You...you said that you're new to Hogwarts this year, right? You can't possibly be a first year..."

"No, I'll be in my sixth year," she replied, the wheels turning in her mind as she attempted to fabricate a sufficient back story, "I was home-schooled until now, but my parents no longer have the time to further my education, nor the skill necessary to take me as far in my studies as I would like to go. I have more or less...exhausted their resources."

That would do just nicely. There was no harm in creating an intimidating reputation for herself early on, although she was certain that it would develop on its own once the term had commenced. She had no doubt that her time at the Home had given her enough skill and talent to surpass that of any student here by a landslide. Although Isaac had advised her to keep her knowledge in check and to make as many friends as possible, so as to become better equipped to gather information, this seemed like a waste of time. As far as she was concerned, the only "friends" she needed were her enemies, meaning that she only needed to get close to someone if she suspected they were in league with Grindelwald, and since she had deemed that very unlikely, she might as well do things her way.

"I'm a third year," Myrtle piped up, the slight sense of apprehension never leaving her face, "and I'm in Ravenclaw. I hope you get sorted into my house."

This was a subject that intrigued Annabelle.

"What are these houses?" she asked, leaning forward a bit in her seat, "And what do you mean by 'sorted?'"

As Annabelle had expected, Myrtle launched happily into an explanation.

"Well, everyone gets sorted in their first year. It's quite uncomfortable, actually. They make you sit on a stool right at the front of the Great Hall for the whole school to see, and they stick an enormous, ugly old talking hat on your head. That's the Sorting Hat, and it will put you into one of the four houses. You spend most of your time with the people in your own house. Like I said, I'm in Ravenclaw, the house for the cleverest, wisest witches and wizards. Then there's Hufflepuff, for the very compassionate people, and Gryffindor for the brave, and Slytherin for the ambitious. Which house do you think you'll be in?"

Annabelle thought for a moment, analyzing her own personal qualities and matching them up to that of each house. She discarded Hufflepuff as a possibility immediately; compassion wasn't exactly her strong point. Ravenclaw was unlikely as well. She got to the level of skill she was at through hard work, not inherent intellect. That left Gryffindor and Slytherin. There could be no doubting her ambition. Revenge was certainly a factor of her obsession with bringing down Grindelwald, but there was so much more behind it. She did not merely want Grindelwald to be overpowered; she wanted to be the one to do it. She wanted the glory and recognition that would follow, and above all, she wanted the unimaginable to occur. Despite being a woman, she wanted to be offered the position of Minister of Magic. She craved the power and sense of importance that came with the title. Her bravery was an entirely different story. She was only brave when she needed to be, and she was never reckless if only because she couldn't afford to be. That could hardly be characteristic of Gryffindor, so that meant...

"I'll be in Slytherin," she mused in a near murmur, speaking more to herself than to Myrtle, "I'm almost positive."

Myrtle appeared to be disappointed and a bit disgusted, as if the idea repulsed her.

"I sure hope not," she said, "All of the most dreadful people end up in Slytherin. You seem nice enough, though, so I'm sure the Sorting Hat will put you somewhere else."

Annabelle couldn't help but laugh at the misconception that ambition was an evil, destructive quality. Utterly ridiculous.

"What's so funny" Myrtle asked, arching her eyebrows warily, obviously afraid that she was being made fun of.

"I find it hard to believe that a house was made entirely for horrible people," Annabelle answered, a grin still playing on her lips, "Surely there must be one decent Slytherin."

Myrtle thought for a moment before shaking her head.

"No. They're all horrid, and that Olive Hornby is the worst of them. And then there's that awful group of boys that..."

She trailed off, appearing to be lost in her own thoughts.

"That what?"

"What? Oh, those boys who hang around Tom Riddle. I was just thinking that he doesn't seem quite so bad. Maybe he just surrounds himself with horrible people."

The remainder of the journey passed by in relative silence, both girls staring contentedly out the window. Before long, the train came to a stop in front of a magnificent castle overlooking a large lake.

Annabelle glanced up at the enormous building with only mild interest. She'd been shown pictures of the place, and therefore wasn't taken too off-guard by its splendor. Myrtle, on the other hand, was behaving as if it were she was seeing the castle for the first time. ("Oh, oh, isn't just marvelous, Heather?) Eager to be rid of her increasingly irritating companion, Annabelle slipped out of the compartment, and bounded down the aisle, running directly into a student who must have been equally keen to detach himself from his compartment.

The boy slammed the book he'd been buried in closed and swung around to face her, the look on his face that of pure malice. He had black hair, combed perfectly away from his eyes, not a strand out of place, and his eyes were a surprisingly deep shade of brown that might even be considered black. He was quite possibly the palest person she had ever come across, and she wondered briefly if he were suffering some kind of illness. The strange look on his face took her aback for a moment, but her face remained a perfect mask of innocent composure.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, straightening out her robes as an excuse to break eye contact with the boy, "I guess I just wasn't looking where I was going."

"No, I suppose you weren't," the look of malice was now gone from his eyes and replaced with a completely impassive expression, "I do not recall seeing you before. Are you a new student?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Yes," said Annabelle, hiding her amusement at this boy's confidence in his knowledge of everyone at Hogwarts, "My name is Heather Brown," she offered, sticking out her hand in greeting.

"Tom Riddle," he said with a curt nod; he had either not noticed her hand or had blatantly ignored it, "I am one of the school's Prefects, so if you will follow me, I can direct you to the gamekeeper outside the train. He will bring you and the other first years to the castle."

"I'm not a first year," Annabelle replied indignantly, "Do I seem eleven years old to you?"

With a roll of his eyes, Riddle replied, "Of course not, Brown, but you have yet to be sorted, am I incorrect?"

When Annabelle gave no reply, he said "Then you are to enter the castle with the first years and be sorted amongst them when you are admitted into the Great Hall."

With that, he turned swiftly on his heals and headed for the train's exit, leaving Annabelle to run in order to catch up with him. Once outside the train, she lost Tom Riddle in the sea of black cloaks that had quickly formed around the platform of the train.

It appeared his assistance was unnecessary, however, as a loud, booming voice cried out, "Oi! First years, first years over here! All first years to the far right of the platform! FIRST YEARS!"

This was going to be a long year.


	3. An Adversary

"First years, over here!"

Annabelle made her way toward the short, red-haired man who looked to be about fifty years old and was screaming in a low, booming voice that did not at all seem to fit his slim, tiny frame. When she reached him, she found herself among a large group of eleven-year-olds, all about half her size, where all hopes of blending in with the crowd were immediately erased. In fact, upon seeing Annabelle join the group, the little man's eyes narrowed, and he pointed a small, bony finger in her direction.

"You're a first year, young lady?" he inquired, clearly making no effort to mask his disbelief.

"No, sir," Annabelle called up to where the man stood at the front of group, her best apologetic smile on her face, "I am new to Hogwarts, though. I've just come off of homeschooling. A boy named Riddle told me to find you…Tom Riddle, I believe?"

She mentally cursed Isaac for not setting up some sort of airtight arrangement to at least ensure her entry into the school. The fact that he expected her to simply walk into a school renowned as the most secure place in the world and be accepted as a student without the slightest suspicion would have been laughable if it weren't so problematic. She waited in her feigned, doe-eyed innocence as the red-haired man stood in what looked to be a particularly painful deliberation. His eyebrows pinched together in pure confusion, he looked her up and down as if an explanation for her presence in front of him could be found somewhere on her person.

"No one told me to expect any new sixth years," he said slowly, "We've never even had one of those before, I don't think. You'd better check in with Professor Dippet…er…that's the Headmaster."

Oh, wonderful. She'd just arrived and was already expected to put up an acceptable front for the man in charge. Her mind began racing as she struggled to perfect a sufficient lie while simultaneously keeping up her appearance of being a simple and compliant new student.

"Of course, sir, but do you think you could show me the way?"

"Er…I can't. I've got to take care of this lot," the man said, gesturing toward the group of timid children, "Let me see if I can find someone to…Oi! Avery!"

A tall, lanky boy with a thick head of blond hair stopped in his tracks and spun around to face the man who had called him, looking extremely irritated at having to do so.

"What do you want, Ogg?" Avery spat, standing uncomfortably close to the smaller man, so as to better tower over him for a menacing effect.

"You're to show this young lady here to the Headmaster's office."

"What do I got to do that for? I…"

Avery cut himself short upon glancing over to see just who it was that Ogg had been talking about. Apparently, he'd expected to see a shy eleven-year-old girl, and at the sight of an older one, he'd changed his mind about the inconvenience attached to being her guide.

"You know what? Never mind," he said with a smirk and a wink in Annabelle's direction, "Right this way, miss."

Annabelle complied with a roll of her eyes. She knew very well that she did not have a single remarkable physical attribute; she was painfully average-looking, and she was quite fond of that fact. Being particularly beautiful was a hindrance to working in secret, as was being particularly unattractive, and she was grateful for the convenience of an appearance that allowed her to blend in when she wanted to. However, this knowledge made it abundantly clear that she was dealing with a boy who was apt to desire any girl, no matter how unremarkable they may be. In short, she was dealing with an insufferable pig.

"Neil Avery," he said in greeting, slinging an arm around her shoulder and beginning to walk in the direction of the castle.

"Heather Brown," Annabelle replied curtly, shoving his arm off of her body. Feigned politeness could only go so far, and she was not one to stand for any kind of unwanted touch. Avery, however, was undeterred.

"Aw, come on, sweetheart, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Don't call me that," she said without a trace of emotion in her voice, hoping he'd simply take the hint and they could walk the rest of the way in silence.

"Alright, alright, I'll be a good boy," he said just before reaching up to pinch her cheek, causing her to use every ounce of self control she possessed to prevent herself from hexing him, "for now."

"Oh, thank you so much for your consideration," she muttered through clenched teeth.

"Anytime, sweet cheeks. Here we are. Dippet's office is up that staircase. You'll know it by the gargoyle in front of it. Password's Matilda, I think…at least that's what it was last year. Say that to it and it'll get out of your way. See you around, doll face."

With yet another wink, Avery sauntered off, presumably to where the rest of the students were gathering for the sorting.

Annabelle slowly ascended the staircase, attempting to anticipate the sorts of questions she'd be hit with once she reached her destination. Although she didn't want to be at Hogwarts in the first place, the last thing she wanted was to fail in what was supposed to be a simple and idle mission and return to the Home in shame and defeat.

"Matilda," she said as she approached the gargoyle at the top of the stairs, and the object leaped to the side to admit her.

"What is it now, Albus? For heaven's sake, the sorting is about to start, and I haven't even gotten the blasted Hat to the Great Hall!"

An extraordinarily frail-looking man, who Annabelle assumed to be Professor Dippet, was peering over his desk at something, unaware of who it actually was that had entered his office.

"Er…Headmaster?"

"Oh!" Dippet exclaimed when he raised his head to meet her gaze, "Forgive me, but I'm in a bit of a rush, and shouldn't you be in the Great Hall by now, Miss…?"

"Brown," Annabelle offered, "My name is Heather Brown, sir, and I'm actually not quite sure where I should be."

"What on Earth do you mean?"

"Well…you see…I've never actually attended Hogwarts before. I've been homeschooled up to this point, but my parents don't really have the time anymore, so this was my only option…"

Suddenly, this backstory sounded foolish. She felt like kicking herself for not taking the time to come up with something more elaborate.

"Well, this is something that certainly doesn't happen every day!" Dippet said with surprise, "You'd think that your parents would have at least sent an owl…you won't object to me writing them for confirmation?"

Annabelle's mind reeled. She should have anticipated this. She should have known they would want to contact her parents. Of course, if Dippet sent the letter to Isaac, he'd be able to take care of it, but Isaac's last name was not Brown…

"Of course, sir," she said, an idea dawning on her, "you'll just have to address it to my stepfather, Isaac Ward. My mother is ill and sleeps most of the day, you see. I'm not allowed to disclose the family address; my parents are a little…paranoid, what with Grindelwald at large and all. He's responsible for the death of some family, and…"

"Say no more!" Dippet interrupted, "I assume you have an owl with you who knows the way?"

This Annabelle did have. She'd been given one of the Home's owls, General, to keep up a regular correspondence with Isaac about what she discovered while at school.

"I do. Shall I send word to my stepfather to write you?"

"That will do just fine. Now all that's left is to have you sorted."

Annabelle was shocked at just how easy it was to convince the Headmaster. In her opinion, he was either entirely too trusting or just plain ignorant. She had thought she'd gotten herself into some real trouble when she suggested he send a letter to her stepfather before then realizing that she couldn't reveal the address of where she lived. Perhaps the old man was merely sympathetic to those affected by the monster that was Gellert Grindelwald.

"Now, are you familiar with how this works, Miss Brown?" the Headmaster interrupted her reverie.

"I am."

"Alright, well, let's get this done quickly so that we can both get to the Great Hall for the ceremony."

Professor Dippet lifted a shabby-looking old hat from a shelf and immediately placed it on her head.

"Ah! Looks like we've got a little spy in our midst, don't we, my dear?" the Hat proclaimed within her mind, "Well, I must say, I'm a great deal more interested in sorting Annabelle Reed than Heather Brown. What do you say?"

"Do what you must," Annabelle thought irritably.

"Let's see…well, why bother! It seems you've already made up your mind about where you belong!"

"Then just get on with it, will you?"

"Ah, but I'm not so sure. You'd be a fine fit for Slytherin, but I see you somewhere else."

"Really?" Now she was intrigued. What attribute did she possess that not even she knew about? "And where is that?"

"But you would be an awfully strange fit for Gryffindor…"

"Gryffindor?! Are you mad?!"

"Alright, then, have it your way. Better be…SLYTHERIN"

Professor Dippet removed the Hat from her head as soon as it had roared out her sorting and immediately began hurrying for the door.

"Alright, then, very well, Miss Brown, let's get to the Great Hall; we don't want to keep those first years waiting any longer. You'll join the Slytherin table during the feast. Oh! You'll need a schedule of classes…" Dippet ran back to his desk and retrieved a sheet of paper, which he then hurriedly shoved into Annabelle's hands, "Just fill this out with the classes you wish to take this year and hand it to one of your House prefects, Olive Hornby or Tom Riddle, before the end of the night. If you have any questions, I'm sure your Housemates will be able to help you. Now, come on, let's get going!"

Still delighted and shocked that this had gone so incredibly simply, Annabelle grabbed for the first empty chair she saw when she had reached the Great Hall.

"Hey, there, sweetheart, knew I'd see you in green. Later, I can give you a proper welcome, if you know what I mean."

Of course. Avery. Annabelle grimaced as she turned her head to see the blond boy eyeing her, while at the same, his arm was slung around another girl's shoulder. This girl seemed to protest neither the fact that his arm was around her nor that he was blatantly focusing his attentions on another girl, which Annabelle took as rather odd.

"Must you, Avery?" another boy said with disinterest.

Annabelle looked to see that this was the boy she'd met on the train, Tom Riddle. He hadn't so much as glanced over at Avery when he'd said this, but for some reason, it had put the other boy on the defensive.

"Aw, come on, Tom, I'm just messing around a bit," Avery said, his voice a bit strained now.

Willing to talk to just about anyone in order to avoid another exchange with Avery, Annabelle turned to the boy sitting across from her.

"Hallo, Riddle," she said brightly, "I believe we've met."

Riddle bowed his head in agreement with a polite smile on his lips.

"Of course, on the train. Forgive me, I was distracted and lost track of you. I'm glad to see you found your way."

"I saw that you were distracted," Annabelle replied with a laugh, "I don't think you noticed that I was trying to shake your hand. That is proper etiquette, you know."

"Again, forgive me," the boy replied in the same peculiar polite tone, "Allow me to correct my mistake."

Riddle extended his hand and Annabelle took it in a swift handshake. When she was about to let go however, she noticed something about the rather large ring on his finger. Yes, there it was. Grindelwald's mark. At once, she quickly withdrew her hand, and without meaning to, she betrayed her emotion in her face. She looked up at Riddle with a look of pure malice, a vicious glare settling in her eyes. Riddle's perfect composure broke slightly, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Is something wrong, Brown?"

Annabelle corrected herself and put on a grin that was just a bit too wide to be real.

"What could possibly be wrong, Riddle?"

And suddenly she had a reason to get close to someone at Hogwarts after all. This boy didn't stand a chance.


	4. Puzzles and Intrigue

_Dear Isaac,_

_Send me what you've got on Tom Riddle, a sixth year. He's got a ring with a certain symbol that makes me suspicious. I'll let you know what I find out. Give Aiden a hug for me._

_Annabelle_

Aiden was Annabelle's seven-year-old brother, and he was the only person left in this world that she truly cared for. Initially, she had gotten along quite well with Isaac, the headstrong leader of the Home's efforts to prepare a revolt against Grindelwald; he had been the closest thing she had to a friend, but all of that was erased when he sent her here without a second thought. He knew very well the pain that being separated from Aiden would cause her, and he sent her away anyway. Since she was not allowed to communicate directly with anyone in the Home other than Isaac due to security reasons, she could only hope that he was being properly looked after. She remembered all too well the night her parents had died; she would never forgive herself if she let something happen to her baby brother, too.

She'd awoken with a start that morning from the same old nightmare. She was ten years old and carrying an infant Aiden in her arms, watching helplessly as what little remained of her home burned to the ground. As much as she hoped her parents had not been in that house, she knew that they had. Her mother had just gotten out of bed, and her father was still fast asleep, when she'd left with her little brother for the park only one block away. When she'd first seen the smoke, she thought that maybe her eccentric old neighbor, Hector, was trying his hand at conjuring fireworks again. However, as the smoke clouds persisted, and she began to see the flicker of fire, she grabbed Aiden from where he sat in the sandbox and raced back toward her house, which had already been destroyed almost entirely.

"Mum? Dad?" she called desperately, hanging on to the shred of hope she had that they had somehow managed to escape.

Her cries were never answered, and today, Aiden could not remember his parents at all. Out of the corner of a tear-filled eye, Annabelle saw a tall, thin, blond man raise his wand and then disappear into thin air. There was a smile on his face.

The attack was linked to Gellert Grindelwald in the Prophet two weeks later, and accompanying the article was a picture of the man she'd seen disapparate at the scene of her charred home. From that moment on, she'd harbored a hatred for Grindelwald that was so deep it dictated her every move. She was so focused on obtaining her revenge that she dedicated her entire life to the Home, an organization dedicated to bringing down the Dark wizard at any and all cost.

And that ring. How dare someone so blatantly display their support for a wizard so corrupt that he could kill innocent people without even the amount of remorse it would take to wipe the grin off his face? By wearing that ring, Riddle had aligned himself with the enemy, and she would do whatever it took to expose him and bring him down.

Folding up the letter to Isaac and shoving it in her pocket so that the wrong eyes wouldn't catch it before she was able to get to her owl, she rolled off of her bed and pulled on the school robes that she'd picked up before hopping on the Hogwarts Express. Glancing at her schedule, she saw that she was in danger of being late for her first class: Potions. She hurriedly shoved her books into her bag, grabbed her wand off of her bedside table and bolted out of the dormitory, through the common room and down the corridor. She arrived at the classroom with barely a second to spare, and from the looks of it, all of the other students had already taken their seats. The room was made up of small tables meant for two students apiece. Her stomach churned as she realized that the only open seat was at the back of the room…beside Tom Riddle. She knew that she should be grateful for such a convenient opportunity to dig for information. Isaac certainly would be, and just about any of the others would be, but this was the problem with Annabelle, and she knew it all too well. She let her anger and disgust get in the way of her work. She knew that her assignment required her to get closer to Riddle, but the mere thought of friendly conversation with a follower of the man who killed her parents made her ill. This was not going to be easy, and she wasn't sure of whether or not she was even willing to put in the effort. However, since circumstance had given her no choice, she reluctantly slunk into the vacant seat at the back of the room, keeping her eyes locked at the small, stout professor at the front of the room to avoid having to look at Riddle.

"Brown," Riddle said in a light tone, and Annabelle could just hear that plastered-on pleasant smile of his, "so we meet again."

"Mhm," Annabelle grunted. It was all she could muster without a grimace.

Riddle was silent for a moment, assumedly taken aback by how obviously disturbed she was by his company and her refusal to even make eye contact with him. "I'm afraid I've upset you somehow," he offered.

With a sigh of exasperation, she slowly turned her head to look him in the eye, quite sure that her disgust was evident in her expression and not caring in the slightest.

"I've known you for a day, Riddle. What could you possibly have done to upset me?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, but let's not pretend I've done nothing. It appears that my presence alone disturbs you."

"Maybe I just enjoy my own company, hm? Don't read into it. I like to be left alone," she snapped in response.

Forget getting close to Riddle. She'd find another way to pry for information without becoming his confidante. That was a role she simply couldn't handle. Luckily, Riddle was prevented from trying to continue the conversation by the beginning of class.

"Yes, right, well hello, hello, welcome, welcome. Professor Slughorn, as you know. A pleasure to see you all again," the professor proclaimed jovially from the front of the room, "Good to see you back, Avery, Dolohov, Mr. Riddle, of course," he continued, obviously giving a nod to his favorite students.

Of course Riddle was the teacher's favorite. Annabelle had been inside the walls of Hogwarts for less than twenty-four hours, and she could already see his game: charm the hell out of everyone, make himself the wonderful, perfect little student, gain literally everyone's favor, and he could fly under the raider as the murder-loving scum he really was. She was likely going to be the only person to see through him in the entire school, and right now, she didn't care if he knew it. In fact, she wanted him to. She wanted to make him sweat.

"Ah, but it looks like I don't know you all, after all," Slughorn said, his eyes moving from Riddle to Annabelle, "And what's your name, my dear?"

"Heather Brown, sir."

"Brown…any relation to Melinda Brown, the great seventeenth century historian?"

"Yes, distantly, I believe. A great aunt of some sort," Annabelle replied carefully. Blood obviously mattered to this professor, and likely to other teachers and students as well, so it was best to establish purity early on, "Both my parents are historians as well."

"Very impressive, very impressive indeed, Ms. Brown," Slughorn replied with a beaming smile, "I look forward to having you in class, my dear. Now, everyone, as I'm sure you've noticed, I've got several potions laid out here, and I'd like to see just how many of you can successfully identify all of them. Come on now, get out a piece of parchment and come have a closer look."

Annabelle snatched some parchment and her quill out of her bag and raced to the front of the room in order to avoid further contact with Riddle. Riddle, however, was directly behind her.

"The first is the Draught of Living Death," he whispered, "though not made correctly. I can smell it from here."

"I don't need your help, thanks," she snapped before begrudgingly scribbling down the name of the potion. He was right.

Riddle pursed his lips; she couldn't tell whether it was in frustration or confusion, but either way, she was glad to have wiped that awful smile off his face. For the rest of the day, Annabelle was careful to steer clear of him. To her dismay, she shared not only Potions with Riddle, but Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts as well. He also threw her assumption that she'd best the entire student body academically swiftly out the window. Defense Against the Dark Arts was the only class in which she came even remotely close to touching him, and even there, he bested her. He breezed through every lesson without seeming to exert even the slightest effort. This piqued Annabelle's interest; not only was this boy a Grindelwald supporter, but he was obviously training to participate in the Dark wizard's efforts as well. Tapping Riddle for information suddenly became immensely more important; if she could get to him, she might be able to get to whoever was training him, and likely others as well. She'd turn this idle mission into an opportunity to take down a full-blown training facility on the other side, and apparently one that was offering even stronger training than the Home.

Once her last class was finally at an end, Annabelle decided to forgo dinner in the Great Hall and chose instead to sit in front of the fireplace in the Common Room. Since her parents' death, she had not developed an aversion to fire, as she might have expected to, but rather a sort of sick fascination with it. The idea that the same force that uprooted her entire life and totally transformed her as a person could also be contained in such a secure, domestic manner comforted rather than disturbed her. An element with so much potential for destruction was held captive, helpless in its inability to kill or harm anything at all. Staring into a fireplace was one of the most satisfying ways for Annabelle to spend her time. Destruction could, and ultimately would, be contained.

Lost in this train of thought, she let out a small cry of surprise when a small, hard object was thrown forcefully onto the table in front of her. And just like that, there it was: the ring. Riddle had literally thrown his support for Grindelwald onto to the table between them.

"What is it about this that makes your skin crawl?" Riddle stood above her, the expression on his face not menacing, but containing such an intensity that it both pled for answers and threatened Merlin knew what consequences if he did not receive them.

They were alone in the empty Common Room, and she did not know what he was capable of, or willing to, do in order to wrench the truth out of her, nor did she know why he was so curious in the first place.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Riddle," she spat, deciding it would be best to play dumb, "Now will you please just leave me alone?"

"You didn't behave this way toward me before you shook my hand," he persisted, "You saw that ring, and you associated me with something. What is it?"

"Even if you were right, what would it matter?" she retorted with genuine curiosity.

"You don't trust me. I have been nothing but considerate toward you, and you are already treating me like an enemy. I want to know why."

"I trust no one, Riddle," she said, which was, in a way, true. "Don't take it personally."

She watched as a look of surprise passed over Riddle's face, as though he couldn't believe he had just lost control of his perfect composure. Annabelle couldn't really fault him for his shock; if he wanted to keep up his façade so badly, her cold behavior toward him should not have been enough to break it. After a brief bout of silence, he snapped his perfect smile back into place.

"Forgive me. I'm not used to being treated with suspicion. I will see you in Potions tomorrow. Have a good night."

Annabelle smiled to herself as Riddle scooped up the ring and walked briskly toward the boys' dormitories. This was going to be easy after all. How very wrong she was.


	5. Misjudgement

_Dear Annabelle,_

_Nothing on Tom Riddle but a perfect transcript and a squeaky clean record. I'll keep digging, and you do the same. Aiden says hello._

_Isaac_

Riddle left Annabelle well enough alone in the weeks that followed the incident with the ring, and that suited her just fine. She wanted nothing to do with him, her mission be damned. She'd keep an eye on him from a distance, but as far as she was concerned, he could keep his filthy, murderer-loving personality as far away from her as he liked. As far as the other students were concerned, Annabelle had no use for them. She was entirely uninterested in making friends. No matter how pointless, this was, after all, an assignment, not a social outing. Frivolous associations would do nothing but distract her; she preferred to spend her time studying the seemingly endless supply of Defense Against the Dark Arts books available to her in the library. If Isaac believed she was falling behind, she'd have no choice but to fix that by reading up and honing her skills.

She had wanted to read books on the Dark Arts themselves (unlike some members of the House, Annabelle believed that it was sometimes necessary to fight fire with fire), but they were all confined to the Restricted section of the library, and she wasn't allowed access to those books without the written permission of a professor. Eventually, she'd have to find a way around that. Her reading time was occasionally interrupted, however, by the incessant presence of Myrtle Engle, the third year she'd met on the train. As it turned out, being friendly with her had been a mistake. All it had gotten her was a lonely thirteen-year-old practically begging her for attention on a daily basis.

"I was shocked when I saw you were Sorted into Slytherin, you know," she said one day, sitting cross-legged in the armchair across from Annabelle, who was trying to read an enormous volume on advanced counter-curses. "You're not like any of those dreadful people."

"Well, thank you, Myrtle," Annabelle replied with disinterest, refusing to look up from her book.

"Really, you aren't," the younger girl persisted. "You should see what that horrid Olive Hornby acts like. She's supposed to be a prefect, and all she can do is torture me. She's not so bad when Tom Riddle comes around, though. She knows he won't let her make fun of me. He told her to go away this morning, actually, when he caught her making fun of my glasses. He's just so sweet. Do you know him, Heather?"

"Actually, I'm not all that fond of him," she said through clenched teeth.

"Well why not? He's nice to everyone, and he never picks on me like the rest of them do. He's a lot like you that way."

"I am _nothing_ like Riddle," Annabelle snapped, having had quite enough of this conversation.

"He isn't so great at making friends, though," Myrtle mused, oblivious to the change in Annabelle's tone. "Especially Dolohov. He's always pulling on my pigtails. I don't know why Tom would want to be friends with any of them. I bet you would make a much better friend for him, Heather. Then all three of us could be friends!"

"Yes, well, don't hold your breath. I have to go; I'll talk to you later."

With that, Annabelle scooped up her book and stormed out of the library. Myrtle was becoming more and more bothersome. Was there nowhere for her to read in peace? She decided to try the Common Room where, lo and behold, the sole occupant was Tom Riddle. Without meaning to, she rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation, causing Riddle to look up from his book. His impassive expression remained unchanged.

"Brown. I can go if I'll disturb you," he said in his obviously practiced, even tone.

"Do whatever you like, Riddle; it makes no difference to me," she responded, mimicking his tone before rolling her eyes once more.

"What are you doing?" he asked, a look of genuine, almost childlike curiosity on his face.

"Catching onto your game," Annabelle snapped. "You may be brighter than I am, Riddle, but I'm extremely observant. I know who you are, and I've pinned down your act. Frankly, with that _thing_ on your finger, I can't believe no one has figured you out before! You may have this entire bloody school under your thumb, but you're never going to fool me, so either drop the act or leave me alone."

Riddle was silent for a few moments, wearing that same curious expression and staring at his ring as he spun it on his finger. When he looked up at her once more, his face was again perfectly impassive.

"I'm sorry you feel that way. I'll leave." He turned and headed toward the boys' dormitories. He paused briefly and turned to face her again. "Oh, I almost forgot. Professor Slughorn wanted me to invite you to his dinner party tomorrow in his office. He has them for his best students once in a while; he calls it the Slug Club. It would appear that you're now a member."

And with that, he was gone. Annabelle let out a frustrated sigh and distractedly flipped through her book. Isaac would kill her if he knew she'd passed up an opportunity to observe an exclusive gathering of the school's biggest talents. These students, after all, were the most likely to be threats, and who knew that they would disclose behind closed doors? She doubted she'd get anything out of Riddle, at the Slug Club dinner party or ever, but there may be others. Reluctantly, she resolved to try to stop letting her emotions get in the way of her work. Years later, she would reflect on that day and wish more than anything that she had maintained that resolve.

The next day, she felt haunted by Riddle's eyes. She knew that it must be paranoia, that he couldn't possibly be watching her quite as often as she thought he was. She simply couldn't shake the feeling, manufactured or not, of his eyes glued to the back of her head. She refused to make eye contact with him at all for fear of finding out for sure that her suspicions were true. Perhaps he was only trying to make her nervous after her explosion on him the previous day; she was not about to let him know that he was succeeding.

The hours dragged on, and Riddle seemed to be simply everywhere. Just when she thought she'd shaken him by ducking into the library, she caught a glimpse of him browsing the shelves out of the corner of her eye. When she skipped lunch to avoid him and went for a walk on the grounds, there he was, surrounded by his gang of friends.

"Oi, Brown!"

Oh, wonderful. Avery. Dealing with Riddle himself was bad enough. Dealing with him on top of his predatory cohort would be absolutely intolerable. Hoping that he would take a hint and shove off, she quickened her pace and ignored him, heading back toward the castle.

"Hey! I know you can hear me, sweetheart. Come on now, I don't bite…hard," he called, laughing at his own disgusting implications.

"What do you want, Avery?" she reluctantly called back without turning around or slowing her pace.

"I hear you're going to Slughorn's party tonight. I don't have a date yet, so it's your lucky night!"

This caused Annabelle to stop and spin around to face Avery, standing still and allowing the group to close in on her. She was in no mood to tolerate this boy's revolting antics.

"Avery, I'm not going to say this again, so listen closely. Leave. Me. Alone."

Avery remained unfazed. "That's a no to me then? Alright, alright, how about Dolohov here? How would you like to go with Dolohov? You'd like him; he doesn't talk much either. No? Really? Alright, sorry Dolohov, the lady said no. Oh, I know, what about Riddle? What do you say? Can't pass up an opportunity like that one, can you?"

"That's _enough_ , Avery."

Riddle spoke in a voice that was so low that Annabelle barely heard him, but his commanding air silenced his companion immediately. This was the second time that she had witnessed Avery submitting completely to Riddle simply because Riddle demanded it. The power dynamic of this group was clear. It seemed to her less like a group of friends and more like a master dealing with his servants. Just what was it about him, she wondered, that commanded this amount of respect from nearly everyone he came into contact with? It was highly unsettling.

"I apologize on his behalf, Brown," Riddle said, raising his voice slightly for her to hear. "I'll see you tonight."

How bizarre, she thought as she watched him lead the group away and into the castle. Why on Earth would he call off Avery for her, particularly if he had been following her to intimidate her all day? That just wasn't in line with what she'd made of his character thus far. There had to be something up his sleeve, and she had a strong suspicion that she'd be hearing from him again very soon, whether she liked it or not.

That night, with a feeling of dread growing steadily stronger, she made her way to Slughorn's office. The dinner was set up fairly simply, with a white tablecloth draped over a long, wooden table with places set for each of Slughorn's chosen guests. As usual, she had just narrowly avoided being late, and it given that there was only one empty chair, Annabelle assumed that she was the last to arrive.

"Ah! Miss Brown, there you are! I was beginning to worry that you wouldn't be joining us!" Slughorn exclaimed, beaming at her as she entered the room.

"Of course not, Professor," she said, smiling politely, "I wouldn't miss it."

"Well, my dear, I'm happy to have you here. Welcome to the Slug Club! Well then, now that everyone's here, we can all dig in! You can take your seat right over there, Miss Brown," Slughorn said, gesturing toward the empty seat between Antonin Dolohov and Tom Riddle; this could hardly have been a coincidence. With no other option at hand, Annabelle reluctantly took her seat, carefully avoiding eye contact with either of her neighbors. This time, however, Riddle was not deterred by her attempt to ignore him. He leaned over under the guise of reaching for the bowl of gravy sitting next to her and murmured in a whisper that she could hardly make out.

"I need to speak to you. Wait behind when the others leave."

"I don't think we have anything more to say to each other," she hissed, hoping against the odds that he would just forget about whatever he wanted to tell her so badly.

"I know what you think I am, and you are wrong. Allow me to explain."

Annabelle paused at this; now this was intriguing. Was he really going to try to convince her that he wasn't working for Grindelwald, despite wearing his ring and showing magical prowess that could only come from intense training? Curiosity would not let her deny him the opportunity to try. She slowly nodded her head slightly, agreeing to talk with him, before returning her attention to her to her food. The rest of the dinner passed by slowly and uneventfully. From what Annabelle could gather, all that ever happened when the Slug Club met consisted of Slughorn gushing over his favorite students and those students sucking up in return. It was sickeningly shallow and laughably trivial; how anyone could ever convince themselves that this was a good time was beyond her. As Slughorn prattled away about this one's famous grandmother, that one's wealthy father, and that one's gift in Potions, Annabelle impatiently waited for the event to end. Once it finally had, it turned out that she didn't need an excuse to lag behind.

"Miss Brown," Slughorn called from the head of the table. "You've been exceptionally quiet tonight."

"I'm sorry, Professor," she replied, plastering on a polite smile once again. "I'm not feeling all that well. I've got a bit of a headache."

"Ah, well, no harm done. Next time, I would like to hear about that historian family of yours, though, my dear!"

"Of course, Professor. Any time."

"Alright, well, run along then, and get some rest for that headache."

"Yes, sir. Have a good night."

Annabelle turned and left the room to find Riddle alone and waiting for her.

"We should go somewhere more private," he said immediately upon seeing her. "The Prefect Common Room should be empty by now."

Without another word, he took off, and Annabelle hurried to keep up with him. They walked quickly and in complete silence toward their destination; they were well beyond feeling the need to engage in pleasantries. Annabelle noticed that Riddle's face was not carefully impassive as it normally was, but hard and determined.

"Dignity," Riddle muttered the password as they reached the room on the fifth floor.

As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Riddle whirled around, his thin black eyebrows furrowed and his eyes scanning her face as if already looking for a reaction to something he had not yet said.

"This," he said, removing his ring from his finger and holding it up for her to see, "is a family heirloom. I do not know my family, so I was never able to ask what this symbol stood for. I should have looked further into its meaning. Brown, I had no idea that it was affiliated with Gellert Grindelwald."

"Oh, _really_?" Annabelle scoffed. "Well, thank you for clearing that up, Riddle; I've obviously misjudged you. Are you joking? I'm really supposed to believe, on nothing but your word, that you just happened to inherit a ring with that seal on it? And that you're idiotic enough to parade it around without knowing what it means?"

The word idiotic obviously did not sit well with Riddle. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his voice was strained as if fighting to retain composure.

"I hadn't thought anything of it. I know all that I care to know about my family. I saw no reason to delve into it until you were so disturbed by it."

"Why on earth would I believe you? Are you going to try to tell me that you're the perfect little schoolboy you pretend to be? You're obviously hiding something."

"Even if I'm putting on an act, as you say," Riddle said with his eyebrows slightly raised, "what makes you believe that I'm hiding something?"

The answer to that question was that she knew all too well the demeanor of someone who was keeping secrets, from herself as much as from anyone else. There was no doubt that he was up to something. If it didn't have to do with Grindelwald, which she wasn't at all convinced it didn't, then it was something else. He'd wanted to give her answers; he'd have to do better than this.

"I told you, Riddle. I'm extremely observant."

She could tell he was unconvinced by her answer. She'd expected as much, but she didn't care. They both knew that this was not the time for him to be asking questions, not if he wanted her to trust him. Why in the world he wanted that so badly was completely beyond her.

"Quite," Riddle stated simply.

He paused for a moment, contemplating something, then said slowly, "This conversation is going nowhere. It appears as though I'll have to show you."

"Show me what?"

Riddle was already halfway out the door and did not look back as he gave his answer.

"What I'm hiding."


	6. Small Nuances in the Small Hours

Annabelle sat upright in her bed most of the night, running her last conversation with Riddle through her head, over and over again in frustration. He was lying; he had to be lying...so what was it that he was planning to show her? And why on Earth did he want so badly for her to believe that he wasn’t connected with Grindelwald? What did it matter to him if one student in the whole bloody school wasn’t under his spell? None of this was making any sense at all. She laid down for what felt like the millionth time to try, yet again, to get some sleep, and when it inevitably didn’t come, she decided she’d had quite enough of this nonsense. In one fluid motion, Annabelle leapt out of bed, into her slippers and swiftly made her way to the boys’ dormitories.

She hadn’t really expected to find him there. For whatever reason, Riddle hadn’t struck her as the kind of person who sleeps at all...but there he was, lying flat on his back and, presumably, fast asleep.

“Riddle!” she all but shouted, not caring who she woke up in the process; Annabelle Reed was a force to be reckoned with when she’d reached the end of her rope, which admittedly was very short to begin with.

“What the hell?”

These were quite possibly the first words that Annabelle had ever heard come out of Dolohov’s mouth.

“Who’s there?...is that a girl’s voice? Lumos!” a wand illuminated on the far side of the room belonging to a redheaded boy who she vaguely recognized as Rosier.

“Hey, doll face! Knew you’d come around eventually. Why don’t you come on over here and-”

“Avery, I swear I will hex the life out of-”

“Brown?” 

Riddle had woken up and gotten out of bed at some point during all of the commotion and was now staring at her with a look of pure and unmasked bewilderment on his face. It dawned on the girl only now that this had been a very impractical, impulsive plan of action. While it may have been commonplace to barge into the boys’ rooms at odd hours of the night in the Home, it certainly wasn’t socially acceptable in the outside world. The idea of Isaac’s intense disapproval, however, was almost comical. Why should she bother with social norms when this could be so much more efficient?

“Riddle. A word, please.”

Without waiting for the boy to respond, Annabelle turned sharply on her heels and marched out of the dormitory.

“That was...something,” she heard a voice she did not recognize from behind her.

“That’s an eager one. Tom’s about to have himself a good night!” Avery really did seem incapable of saying anything that didn’t reveal just how much of a pig he was.

Annabelle did not stop to check whether or not Riddle had followed her out until she’d reached the Common Room. When she did turn around, she found him already seated and looking at her expectantly.

“I’m not playing this game with you anymore, Riddle,” she snapped, glaring at him in a way that dared him to further try her patience.

“I can assure you, Brown, that I am not one to play games.”

Annabelle’s grip on her wand tightened in pure frustration. The hell he didn’t play games. 

“Wonderful,” she responded through clenched teeth. “Then you won’t mind telling me what you’ve been hiding right now so we can end this charade, and we can both live our lives in peace.”

“I can’t,” Riddle responded simply, an amused grin beginning to play on his normally expressionless face.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I cannot tell you; I have to show you, and for that, you need to exercise just a bit of patience, Brown.”

“Patience is not a virtue I can claim,” Annabelle spat.

She was beginning to feel ridiculous. What had she expected to happen after dragging the boy out of bed at Merlin knows what hour? And there was something about the way he was looking at her that was unsettling. The half-raised brows, the crooked almost-grin, the hint of light dancing in his dark eyes...it was the first time she’d seen Riddle behave like a normal human being, and he was laughing at her expense. She suddenly found herself wishing she’d thought to at least change out of her pajamas before marching up to his bed and cursing her absurdly impulsive nature. There had been nothing at all to gain from this escapade except, perhaps, a slight loss of dignity.

“I can see that,” Riddle replied, his grin widening. 

She wanted nothing more than to slap that grin right off of his smug face. It seemed, however, that she did not have to. Something like shock registered in Riddle’s expression, his eyebrows narrowing and the grin wiped away into a puzzled sort of frown. It was as if his own unguarded enjoyment had taken him by a quite unpleasant surprise. Then, in an instant, this was cleared away as well, and he looked at Annabelle once more with the emotionless mask she was accustomed to.

“Meet me outside the dungeons after Potions tomorrow. I will show you then.”

With that, he rose stiffly and left her without another word, and Annabelle was left feeling slightly less self-conscious than she had been only a moment ago; it was clear that she was not the only one who had surprised themselves tonight. For a moment, she wondered what kind of life this boy had lived that had taught him to never allow himself a moment’s unguarded enjoyment? She banished her curiosity in an instant, however. What difference did the reasoning behind his bizarre behavior make to her? He was a Dark wizard and a follower of Grindelwald; he embodied everything she was working to take down, and take him down she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the brevity of this chapter; I don't expect this to occur again. My alternative options, however, were to leave it out entirely or to combine it with the next chapter. The latter option didn't fit right, and I wasn't willing to part with this content, so I simply posted two chapters in the same day to try and make up for the lack of words. Everything will be back to normal with the next one!


End file.
